Don Juan
By
Lord Byron
Canto XVI

He stood — how long he knew not, but it seem'd An age — expectant, powerless, with his eyesStrain'd on the spot where first the figure gleam'd; Then by degrees recall'd his energies,And would have pass'd the whole off as a dream, But could not wake; he was, he did surmise,Waking already, and return'd at lengthBack to his chamber, shorn of half his strength.

All there was as he left it: still his taper Burnt, and not blue, as modest tapers use,Receiving sprites with sympathetic vapour; He rubb'd his eyes, and they did not refuseTheir office; he took up an old newspaper; The paper was right easy to peruse;He read an article the king attacking,And a long eulogy of 'patent blacking.'

This savour'd of this world; but his hand shook — He shut his door, and after having readA paragraph, I think about Horne Tooke, Undrest, and rather slowly went to bed.There, couch'd all snugly on his pillow's nook, With what he had seen his phantasy he fed;And though it was no opiate, slumber creptUpon him by degrees, and so he slept.

He woke betimes; and, as may be supposed, Ponder'd upon his visitant or vision,And whether it ought not to be disclosed, At risk of being quizz'd for superstition.The more he thought, the more his mind was posed: In the mean time, his valet, whose precisionWas great, because his master brook'd no less,Knock'd to inform him it was time to dress.

He dress'd; and like young people he was wont To take some trouble with his toilet, butThis morning rather spent less time upon 't; Aside his very mirror soon was put;His curls fell negligently o'er his front, His clothes were not curb'd to their usual cut,His very neckcloth's Gordian knot was tiedAlmost an hair's breadth too much on one side.

And when he walk'd down into the saloon, He sate him pensive o'er a dish of tea,Which he perhaps had not discover'd soon, Had it not happen'd scalding hot to be,Which made him have recourse unto his spoon; So much distrait he was, that all could seeThat something was the matter — AdelineThe first — but what she could not well divine.

She look'd, and saw him pale, and turn'd as pale Herself; then hastily look'd down, and mutter'dSomething, but what 's not stated in my tale. Lord Henry said his muffin was ill butter'd;The Duchess of Fitz-Fulke play'd with her veil, And look'd at Juan hard, but nothing utter'd.Aurora Raby with her large dark eyesSurvey'd him with a kind of calm surprise.

But seeing him all cold and silent still, And everybody wondering more or less,Fair Adeline enquired, 'If he were ill?' He started, and said, 'Yes — no — rather — yes.'The family physician had great skill, And being present, now began to expressHis readiness to feel his pulse and tellThe cause, but Juan said, 'He was quite well.'

'Quite well; yes, — no.' — These answers were mysterious, And yet his looks appear'd to sanction both,However they might savour of delirious; Something like illness of a sudden growthWeigh'd on his spirit, though by no means serious: But for the rest, as he himself seem'd lothTo state the case, it might be ta'en for grantedIt was not the physician that he wanted.

Lord Henry, who had now discuss'd his chocolate, Also the muffin whereof he complain'd,Said, Juan had not got his usual look elate, At which he marvell'd, since it had not rain'd;Then ask'd her Grace what news were of the duke of late? Her Grace replied, his Grace was rather pain'dWith some slight, light, hereditary twingesOf gout, which rusts aristocratic hinges.

Then Henry turn'd to Juan, and address'd A few words of condolence on his state:'You look,' quoth he, 'as if you had had your rest Broke in upon by the Black Friar of late.''What friar?' said Juan; and he did his best To put the question with an air sedate,Or careless; but the effort was not validTo hinder him from growing still more pallid.

'Oh! have you never heard of the Black Friar? The spirit of these walls?' — 'In truth not I.''Why Fame — but Fame you know 's sometimes a liar — Tells an odd story, of which by and by:Whether with time the spectre has grown shyer, Or that our sires had a more gifted eyeFor such sights, though the tale is half believed,The friar of late has not been oft perceived.